Imperial Justice: The Hero of Kvatch
by GalacticHalfling
Summary: Numirien Silinire wanted to escape the restrictive rules of life as an Altmer noble and an arranged marriage. But life as a nobody in Cyrodiil had unanticipated pitfalls.


**This is the second in my mini series about the Elder Scrolls heroes and how they ended up imprisoned before the start of their respective game.  
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**As always I'm happy about feedback on both content and language.**

**I apologize on behalf of my character to any Khajiit and Argonians who take offense at being called 'lizards and cats'. Numirien comes from a community of racist Altmer. And though she tries to do better than her family she sometimes doesn't notice the problem. **

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_27__th__ of Last Seed 433 4E, Imperial City_

Numirien's first impression of the Imperial City was one of overwhelming diversity. The moment she stepped from the ship she was surrounded by the hustle and bustle of a big port. But she didn't marvel at the number of ships or the architecture but at the lizards and cats and orcs, and Nords and Bosmer and Dunmer and Redguards and Bretons, and Imperials of course, but she had expected those (still seeing so many of them in one place felt strange). She realized that she was gawking, and that it was very rude, but she just couldn't contain herself. Back in Lillandril she could count the non-Altmer living in the city proper on her fingers. And even the foreign merchants or dignitaries usually kept to themselves and didn't mingle with the locals. Or maybe it was the locals not mingling with them. (That seemed more like it, when she thought about it.) Numrien kept spinning around on the pier so she could see everything and everyone. People turned and gave her funny looks, but that was hardly anything new for her. Well, back home the common folks hadn't been quite that obvious about it. The privileges of being the kinlord's daughter. She snorted. But that was all in the past (and would stay there if she had anything to say about it). The idea that no one here knew who she was made her giddy. No obligations! No stilted diplomatic answers to her questions! She could barely keep herself from running to the next best person and start asking them random questions about their everyday life or their world views.

But that had to wait. She remembered that she was still standing in front of the ship on which she had arrived. Around here the captain and some of his crew were the only people who knew who she really was. Numirien needed to get away from them and vanish in the crowd so they wouldn't know where she went. Sooner or later her father would find out which ship she used and if he got his hands on the captain that poor mer would surely spill all her secrets.

Numirien looked around to check that no one was following her and slipped into the stream of people walking towards the city proper.

Numirien's second impression of the Imperial City was one of endless uniformity, rigid symmetry and architecture that was clearly meant to make everyone inside feel insignificant. Every wall and every spire copied the style of the gargantuan structure at the center of the city. The Ayleid influence on the architecture was undeniable. Numierien wondered briefly just how big a part of the city had been built by the original elven occupants. She tilted her head back to look at the palace. So that was White-Gold, the Ayleid Tower. To turn it into the center of a manish Empire had truly been a poetic feat. Her father would have compared it to herding swine in a temple, she was sure. Thinking of him, sitting in his study, drinking fine wine with his Thalmor friends, harping about the inferiority of other races while outside his walls the Empire prospered and men brought greater unity to Tamriel than the country had ever seen under the elvish reign of times long gone by, Numirien couldn't help but laugh.

Admittedly Numirien was slightly disappointed by the architecture. It felt old and stifling and militaristic. She found that she actually missed the open, more scattered layout of Lillandril. But if she had to choose between stifling houses and stifling mindsets (or stifling families who insisted on stifling marriages) she would choose the houses any day.

Soon her mind was drawn away from the buildings again, back to the crowds mingling in the streets. Numirien had half expected to see less diversity away from the harbor in the better quarters of the city. That was not the case. Imperials and Argonians alike were showing off the newest fashion on the streets. Some man was weaving through the stream of people waving a stack of papers. "Everybody needs a copy of the Black Horse Courier!" he shouted and before Numirien knew she held a leaflet in hand that contained some speculations about an affair between people whose names she had never heard before.

"Ah... thank you kindly?" she said, slightly perplexed. But the newspaper deliverer had already moved on. Numirien grinned. What a lively city! She contemplated the sensationalist writing style and the meaningless content for a moment; then she shrugged, folded the piece into a paper bird and threw it into the crowd. It hit an obese Breton woman in the face. She let out an enraged scream and looked for the perpetrator. Numirien hastily ducked behind a pair of orcs. Only when the Breton was out of view did she return to looking around with wide eyes and a constant, stupid smile plastered onto her face.

A group of young men and women in outrageously frilly outfits caught her attention: All of them had hair in the colors of the rainbow. The sight was so outlandish that Numirien stopped dead in her tracks and blinked to make sure that she was seeing correctly. Never in her life had she seen someone with hair colored like that. Rationally she knew that it was possible, probably with the use of alchemy or alteration magic. But the idea had never occurred to her. Which, she realized, was an absolute shame. She had the pale golden hair of all well-bred Altmer, and it was simply _boring_.

Without hesitation she strode over to the group of flamboyant characters. "Greetings, I couldn't help but notice your extraordinary hair. May I ask how you acquired that look, and where I might get one myself?"

"You may," a Redguard with grass green hair replied. One of her friends elbowed her. "Oh, yes, sure... it's that new dye. It's going to be the fashion of the year, I tell you. That nice hair stylist in the Market District..."

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The establishment to which Numirien had been directed had an interior that was clearly upscale yet at the same time so eccentric that Numirien was certain just one look at it would give most members of her father's court an instant aneurism. The walls were hung with tapestries of fine quality, the chandelier seemed to be covered in real gold, or something that looked very much like it, all furniture was carved with ornamental decorations and was polished to sheen, and the carpet was clean and fluffy. But none of the candles and tapestries had a color in common with another one. A potted cactus as tall as Numirien stood in one corner of the room and a heavy sent like flowers and sweet fruits hung in the air. The owner of the shop, a middle-aged Breton, looked every inch like the establishment he run. The entire setup was one big sensory overload. Numirien loved it at once.

"Greeting, greetings! What can I do for you on this fine day?" the Breton smiled widely and made a gesture that looked half like an inviting wave of his arm and half like a bow.

"I have heard that you provide hair dying services."

"Oh yes, you've heard correctly."

"Can you dye my hair a nice, vibrant shade of pink?"

"Most certainly! Do you also want it done up in a certain style?"

"I'd prefer something a bit messier that's still elegant."

"Alright, take a seat, please. I'll be back in a moment."

Numirien did as asked and watched with fascination as the Breton vanished into some backroom only to come back with an assortment of flasks and flacons a short while later.

The man got to work, brushing her hair, and wrapping strands in tincture soaked pieces of cloth with well-practiced movements. All the time he kept talking about things that sounded like local rumors. Numirien lacked the context, so she just made interested noises or laughed if one of the mentioned people had an especially funny name.

Numirien wasn't quite sure how much time had passed when the man gave a final tuck at her hair and turned one of the nearby mirrors so that she could get a good look at the result. She barely recognized herself. Her hair was practically glowing in an eye-watering shade of pink and was arranged in a way that made her appear daring. Numirien grinned widely. "If my intended could see me now he would never look at me again!"

The stylist's pleasant smile dropped. "Pardon?"

"Oh," Numirien said, turning towards him with a twirl, "if you had met him you would know that that's a great compliment for your work. It's perfect!"

"I understand," the Breton said in that polite tone that people used when they didn't quite know how to react to a possibly sensitive matter that got casually dropped in conversation. (Numirien knew that tone well since she was in a habit of dropping such matters in conversation on a regular basis.) But his smile returned, looking pleased now. "So everything is to your liking?"

"Oh, yes. Thank you very much!" Numirien replied enthusiastically. She got up and started to walk towards the door.

The Breton's smile weakened. "My lady, I'm afraid you've forgotten about the payment. You owe me 80 septims."

Numirien stopped, startled. She opened her mouth and was about to tell him that he should just sent the bill to Kinlord Corridal's mansion. Then it hit her like a ton of brigs that of course she couldn't do that anymore. It should have occurred to her when she left home that she would need to have money if she was going to live anonymously. It was obvious, really. But she had never in her life handled a single coin herself. The very idea of money and payment had just always been so distant that it had completely slipped her mind. She felt her cheeks grow hot. "I'm afraid I currently don't have any money on my person," she admitted. "But I'll return with the payment in a timely fashion." She didn't know where she would get the money yet. But 80 septims wasn't much. She would just do some work. That's what people usually did to get money, right?

The Breton frowned, looking her over as if reevaluating his mental image of her. "Only if you leave me a pledge of equal value since you are a stranger to me with no proven reputation. The ingredients for my potions are expensive, and my time valuable."

Mentally Numirien cursed that she had left all her jewelry at the mansion before slipping away in the night. At the time she had thought it clever not to take anything with her that might prove her identity or that might entice robbers. "Unless you want to take my dress and have me go out naked to get the money I'm afraid I can't do that either. But you will get your payment. I'm as good as my word!"

The Breton lost all remains of politeness, sounding genuinely angry now, "Your word might be good or not. But I won't let you make a fool of me. You _do_ realize that refusing to pay for services rendered is as much of a crime as thievery, don't you? I've had quite enough of this. I'm calling the guards! If what you say is true they can escort you while you retrieve the money!" With that he opened the door and hailed the guards.

This situation was getting way out of hand. Really, it had just been a stupid oversight at her part! Not liking the idea of getting thrown into jail on her first day on Cyrodiilic shores she did what seemed the obvious choice to her: She bolted.

Numirien nimbly dodged the guard who was talking with the hair dresser and almost made it to the end of the street when a second guard stepped into her way and stopped her escape quite abruptly and painfully by slamming his shield in her face.

"Stop! You've violated the law," the man shouted. "I would ask you to pay the fine to the court. But from what that citizen over there just told us I doubt you have the money. So it's jail for you, criminal scum. I hope you rot!"

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Numirien's third impression of the Imperial City was one of dank, moldy prison walls and very bad room service. Not to mention the utterly unpleasant company of the Dunmer in the cell opposite hers. On the bright side: They hadn't sent her back to her family yet. And she had awesome pink hair now.

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**The whole hair dying wasn't supposed to become such a long part of the story. But I wanted to establish a headcanon explanation for the ridiculous hair color options in character creation.**


End file.
